Lost Over the Edge
by akaAuroraBorealis
Summary: A one-shot.  Sarah's very odd dream of losing John Watson.  Moves quickly from food to sex to angst to absurdity.  Warnings: 1. a tortured metaphor 2. shameless use of the two meanings of the word "mount".


**Lost Over the Edge**

The beginning is always the same. She and John are at a restaurant located in a non-specific but familiar neighborhood, eating non-specific but familiar cuisine. Like all her dreams, this one is not overly realistic. Time is suspended. Real words are spoken, but they vaporize before she can understand them. People and things jump in and out of view without explanation. But none of this is really important. The focus of Sarah's mind's eye is the powerful emotional content of the tableau: the ordinary people, places, and things that dominate her waking world are of no consequence here. Everything logical and physically grounded has been pushed aside by sensations so concentrated and intense that there is no room for anything else.

At the start of the dream, all is wonderful. Sarah feels nothing but an aura of ease and contentment combined with the playful tension that always accompanies mutual sexual attraction. Dreaming Sarah's mind craves this feeling, reaches out and latches on to it, forgetting for the millionth time that, in a blink of an eye, the dream will alter course, and the good feeling will be gone.

Like always, Sarah becomes aware she is having the "restaurant dream" because of the smells. The distinct aromas of food, candle smoke, and John's woolen jumper mix and play around their intimate corner table. Sometimes they're strong and cloying and at other times frustratingly faint and distant.

She and John are talking as they eat, but their words mean nothing and are less important than the flow of the conversation that surges and then ebbs with a flirtatious rhythm. Their talk is punctuated by equally important gestures: an eager and responsive smile, an occasional small touch of a hand, and sometimes a sly feathery brush of a leg beneath the table.

At some point Sarah becomes aware she's eating. The fork is cool and steely in her hand as she probes the offerings on her plate. With delight she feels a slight resistance then yielding as she spears the desired morsel, then again as she pushes it past her insufficiently parted lips. Her mouth instantly explodes with a wonderful but unknown savory salty flavor that has her deftly flicking her tongue 'round her lips to capture any sauce that has escaped. This zealous enjoyment of her meal earns Sarah nothing less than John's broad and suggestive smile. John, who now seems closer than a table-width away, who now seems to be beneath her, who now appears to be naked as well.

Sarah can feel him under her, snug and hard between her thighs as she comes in waves. The tightening grip of his hands around her hips tells her he's not far behind. The genteel restaurant smells have been replaced by the feral scents of her body and John's; moist, salty, and earthy; elemental and animalistic. Sarah hears no sound other than her own shallow breath, high pitched gasps really, that rise and fall with the fantastically provoking stimulation coming from below. But then another sound intrudes. It's John's cell phone, and Sarah tries to tune it out. Squeezing her eyes closed she wills the world away.

"Come on John," calls a familiar baritone in a tone both possessive and commanding.

"Piss off!" counters Sarah, defiantly claiming what's rightfully hers as she rides out the last of the orgasm.

Sarah rolls over onto her back and lies sprawled across what she now sees is her bed. "Can't take that away from me, you selfish bastard," she says aloud in a happy mix of triumph and bliss. However, her joyous victory soon feels hollow as she looks first around the bed and then around the room to find she is alone.

John is gone, but then, Sarah herself is no longer in her bed either. Instead, she's standing in her sister's living room where there appears to be a sad little gathering of her old friends and acquaintances. Frieda from medical school catches her eye and approaches wearing an uncharacteristically dour expression.

"So I heard he was a doctor too," Frieda coos in a conciliatory whisper.

Sarah looks down and sees she's wearing the black dress she only puts on for those rare somber occasions. The meaning of the gathering suddenly smacks her in the face with grim force—she's in mourning for John.

"You've been misinformed, Frieda," she says. Her voice is strong, but her eyes are starting to mist. "He's a base jumper."

"A what?" asks Frieda, her eyebrows knotted in confusion.

"Oh, I'm sure you've heard of them. Base jumpers climb up tall things like buildings or mountains, then they jump. It takes a lot of skill and practice. They carry parachutes but use them only at the last possible moment. It's the ultimate sport for thrill seekers." Sarah is surprised to find she knows anything about base jumping. Maybe she's learned about it from watching a program on telly and she just doesn't remember.

"So, what was he jumping off of when, you know…?" Frieda asks, letting her sentence trail off with poignancy.

"The highest most perilous mountain he could find, of course. John never can resist a challenge," says Sarah, her voice a little shaky. Her eyes are now brimming with tears, and her breath is shallow and tight in her chest.

"Which mountain was it?" asks Frieda, her face betraying the morbid curiosity that lay beneath the sympathy.

"Mount Sherlock," Sarah chokes out, tears now streaming down her face.

"How awful for you. If it's not too painful, how did it happen? I mean, did his parachute fail?" Frieda presses.

"No, no. His is always reliable," says Sarah, her voice wracked with sobs. "He never jumps without his Sherlock."

As soon as those words leave her lips, the pain and sadness is gone.

"What?" cried Frieda, her face screwed up in puzzlement. "I thought the mountain was named Sherlock? I was asking about the parachute."

"They are both Sherlock, the mountain and the parachute," says Sarah now fully composed. She speaks slowly and with mock patience, in a manner that conveys her inner thought, "Stupid nosy cow."

"But his body…" starts Frieda. Her voice is more distant now as Sarah has headed for the door, seeing no point to this ridiculous wake.

"Oh, it was a lovely body," Sarah begins, with a knowing grin. "Still is. He's not dead, you know. He's just gone. Off to mount Sherlock, no doubt." She winks back at the gaping mourners.

Sarah throws open the door and steps out into a vast field of daisies that has oddly taken root in front of her sister's Golders Green flat. Her black dress has been replaced by jeans and a tee shirt. She smiles in the warm sunshine and breathes deeply as she strides across the field. It's a weekend, and she has nothing planned. "What a perfect day to invite John and Sherlock over for brunch!" Sarah thinks. "I'll do it, just as soon as I wake up."


End file.
